


Dial-A-Ouija

by raunchyandpaunchy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cher Horowitch, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Halloween, Snark, Witches, basically if Cher Horowitz was a witch, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 21:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21260180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raunchyandpaunchy/pseuds/raunchyandpaunchy
Summary: Even the most Bitchin' Witch has problems. Thankfully, the souls of the departed are just a phone call away, ready to listen to her woes.





	Dial-A-Ouija

**Author's Note:**

> So, I had the plotbun of "what if there was some sort of hotline/party line that acted like a ouija board and you could talk to ghosts", and what better time to post it than Halloween? And given that party lines are about the most 90s thing I can think of, why not make my witch like, a total Valley Girl? 
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy this incredibly cracky holiday-themed one-shot!

Rachel throws her backpack onto the bed with a sigh.

It isn’t like she has an awful life or anything. Half the witches at school would summon Cthulhu just to _be_ her. And, like, who can blame them? Head of the most coveted coven, always voted Best Dressed in Yearbook, and owner of a brand-new cellphone. She has everything a girl could want, according to Bitchin’ Witch magazine.

But still, it feels like there’s something missing, like the other half of a super-cute pair of heels that she still can’t find despite the multiple clairvoyancy spells she’s cast. Some sort of gap that can’t be filled by shopping or lipgloss or transmogrifying her brat of a little brother into a cockroach.

Rachel sighs, slumping down onto her bed and startling the cat sleeping there, its fur knot-free and white as fresh snow.

“Sorry, Mittens,” she mumbles, running her fingers through her familiar’s thick fur. “It’s been such a hard day.” Mittens huffs out of her nose in sympathy. “Like, I think you’re the only one who_ gets_ me, y’know?” 

Mittens lets out a noise that might be sympathetic and curls back up, head tucked into the mass of fluff that makes up her tail.

“Whatever.” Rachel clicks her fingers and the television screen in front of her sparks to life, still set on the shopping channel. They’re selling a cauldron today—it claims to be non-stick, lightweight and durable, but it doesn’t take a crystal ball to know that’s a crock of shit. 

“If you call now,” the host says, white teeth gleaming as she smiles, “you’ll get all this and our Five Minute Potions book for just $66.60!” 

Rachel rolls her eyes as a man gushes about how this cauldron changed his life, and pulls her cellphone out of her bag. Considers calling one of the girls from the coven, because she really wants to talk about this feeling of emptiness that’s bumming her out, but as she’s punching in the number a commercial blares across the screen, bright and loud and lively.

“Looking for someone to talk to?” The commercial asks, bright fluorescent zig-zags tracing across the screen. “Questioning life’s purpose and your existence on this mortal plane?”

Rachel looks down at her cell. “Uh, kinda?”

“Why not call and talk to one of our many departed souls? They’re ready to hear your woes and offer a friendly, spectral ear! Some haven’t spoken to the living for centuries, so you know they’ll be eager to hear your thoughts!” 

Rachel snorts, but doesn’t change the channel.

“Call DIAL-A-OUIJA today. We guarantee we’ll have you in high spirits.”

The number flashes across the screen as Rachel groans at the awful pun. Tragic. Hotlines were for people who didn’t have friends. She could call Monica, or Jessica, or Lilith. Or all three at the same time, because her cell has conference calling and that’s totally something she can do.

Like she’s going to call a hotline to talk to some dusty old ghoul? As if.

Although… it might be interesting. She doubts it’s legit, but maybe hearing some sad sack pretend to be a ghost will cheer her up.

She punches in the number, hits dial, and waits.

* * *

It takes what feels like a million years, listening to cheesy hold music as Rachel waits to talk to someone, and she’s considering hanging up before the music stops and a voice rings out at the other end.

“Welcome to Dial-A-Ouija,” the person says on the other end, her voice bored and brusque. “You’re through to Trudy. What’s up?”

Rachel snorts, strangely nervous. “Is that like, your real name?”

“Actually, my real name is Gertrude,” she replies, annoyance spiking her tone. “But I prefer Trudy.”

“Yeah, I get why.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and Rachel can sense the daggers that are being drawn her way. “Yeah, so. You gonna talk or what?”

“Don’t you, like, ask me some questions?” Rachel’s brow furrows, and she tries not to give away just how taken aback she is. 

“Lady, you phoned me.”

That was true, but there’s no way Rachel’s going to actually admit that. “Whatever. So are you like, a real ghost?”

“No, I’m pretending.” Sarcasm drips from Trudy’s voice. “Listen, do you think I’d choose to do this?”

Rachel sighs. “Like, I don’t know. I’m a witch, I’m not_ psychic._” She idly twirls her blonde hair around her finger. “So what’s Heaven like?”

“Seriously?” Trudy lets out a snort. “Again. Do you think I’d be doing this chicken-shit gig if I was in Heaven?”

“Yeah, probably not,” Rachel agrees. “So why are you doing it?”

There’s a long sigh at the other end of the line. “Gotta get outta purgatory somehow. And this manages to be just slightly less mind-numbing than purgatory.” Rachel’s about to challenge that when Trudy continues. “Imagine the most boring class you’ve ever been in. Got that? Yeah, that’s purgatory, except the class never ends.”

“Ew.”

“Yep. Ew.”

Rachel pauses, thinking of all the things she wants to ask Trudy. “So, when did you die?”

“June ’67.”

“What, like 1667?”

“Like 1967,” Trudy says, that same irritated tone present. “We’re not all from way back when, y’know. Most of the people here are from this century.”

Strangely enough, Rachel feels disappointed. “I at least thought I might get to talk to one of the Salem witches. Or, like, Joan of Arc.”

“Wasn’t she French?”

“Oh yeah, good point.” Rachel sighs. “Just a major bummer to be talking to some unknown chick from the Sixties.”

“Yeah, well,” Trudy replies, “Major bummer that I’m not working in the same quadrant as Jimi Hendrix, but we all gotta make do.”

“You’re like, super bad at your job, y’know,” Rachel says, the hint of a smile pulling at her lips.

“Like I said, lady. Just working off purgatory.” 

“So, like, I dunno if this is a weird question or anything,” Rachel says, stretching the scrunchie around her wrist, “But… how did it happen? Like—”

“What, my death?” Trudy asks, like Rachel had just questioned her about the weather. “Car crash. Completely unremarkable.” Something like a laugh leaves Trudy. “I was seventeen when it happened.”

Rachel swallows. “I’m seventeen right now.”

“Take my advice. Don’t be a reckless asshole like I was.” Trudy sighs, and there’s something wistful in it; regretful, even. “You’re too busy focused on the now, and you never bother to think about the consequences, you know?” She pauses. “Shit, I’m projecting. Anyway. Anything else you wanna ask me?”

There’s about a thousand things, but one question slips out of Rachel’s lips before she can think about it. “What was it like being a teenager back then?”

The other end of the line is silent for a second, and Rachel’s worried that she’s been disconnected, but then Trudy talks. “Well, I guess kind of like it’d be for you now? Just with less technology and the looming threat of war.” There’s a sadness present in Trudy’s voice, but also a brightness, and Rachel finds herself wanting to get to know the person on the other end of the line. “There’s the usual bullshit—friends, cliques, trying to balance everything while you battle your way through the multiple existential crises you have.”

Rachel laughs—not a saccharine, fake laugh like she saves for cute boys, but a real one, light and carefree. “Right? It’s like, a huge drag.”

“Yeah, it’s a trip alright,” Trudy says. “Gets easier when you’re dead. That’s the one upside of this whole shitshow.”

“You were like, totally a hippie back in the day, right? There’s no way you can be so positive about all this and not be.”

Trudy laughs. “What, _shitshow_ was positive? You try not being pragmatic after being in purgatory for decades.” She pauses. “Gives you time to think.”

“Okay, I take back the hippie thing. Now you’re a huge downer.” Rachel bites her lip. “I mean, I don’t blame you. Being dead’s gotta suck.” _Probably not the most tactful thing to say._ “Anyway, like—it was good talking to you.”

“It was?”

“Yeah,” Rachel admits, surprised at herself. “I thought I was gonna end up talking to some loser, and then I thought you were like, super mean and stuff,” she says, “but like… I guess what I mean is that I’m glad I got put through to you. You put things in perspective, y’know?” She looks at her nails, long and sharp, a fresh coat of Malibu Pink still shining on them. “Like, everyone usually sugar coats everything, tells me what I want to hear. It’s nice to be told what’s actually on someone’s mind for once.”

“Uh, well,” Trudy says, unsure, “glad I could help, I guess?”

“Anyway, I’ve gotta go. Daddy’ll go nuts if I run up this cellphone bill.” Rachel flicks her hair. “Hope you get someone as bitchin’ as me for your next call.”

Trudy snorts. “Yeah, here’s hopin’, princess.”

Rachel clicks her cellphone off, nestling it back in her bag and retrieving her notebook and pen. She’d lost track of how long she’d been on the phone for, but somewhere along the way the sun had set and the moon had made its way high in the sky, milky light pouring in through her window as stars twinkled dimly alongside.

She smooths down the pink fluff on the cover of her notebook before opening it. Numerous sigils are drawn across its pages—friendship, love, power, popularity, hearts and stars scribbled in the margins. Tonight, she takes a breath, picturing a sigil she’d learned months ago for a test—protection, transition, rebirth.

Her pen glides across the page, neon pink and sure, sketching out the symbol before scribbling Trudy’s name underneath.


End file.
